Analysis
by Tenebrus
Summary: Analysis, n: The separation of an intellectual or material whole into its constituent parts for individual study. The study of such constituent parts and their interrelationships in making up a whole. Two separate characters, and some tough questions.


**Analysis  
**By Tenebrus

(A/N: It came to me as if in a dream. Whaaaaa. This is a challenge I issued to myself, and a few musings between my favorite character and my best friend, ObliviousTrace's favorite character. Guess who they are. Not that difficult. Incidentally, these two characters are each other's least favorites as well. I dislike her favorite, and she dislike's mine. Weird, huh? There will be, for once in my life, no romance of any kind. Just a sheer interaction. But you can read into it what you will, there's no harm in that ;) Please r/r.)

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"I hate you, you know."

"I know."

She looked relatively pleased to hear this, and continued to wrap the bandages over his wounds. They would probably be scars. As she absently ran her wand over some particularly nasty cuts, she skimmed the official reports with the index finger of her other hand.

"Interesting." She looked up at him. 'You really ought to have gone to a Mediwitch for these."

"I can heal later. Now, put that insufferable wand down, or I'll take ten points from Gryf…" he trailed off, staring into her cinnamon eyes, realizing what he had just said.

"You were about to take points from Gryffindor."

"Yes."

She shook her head, but she put the wand down all the same. There was a long silence as she continued to read intently. He was amazed to find the sheer speed at which she traversed the long, angular handwriting.

"You aren't reading those."

"You should already know that I am. How else did you think I could complete those horrid reading assignments on the nature of Asphodel in the very, _very_ brief timeslots you allotted?" She returned to the parchment. "Actually… I find most of this fascinating."

He raised an eyebrow skeptically, saying nothing. She rattled on, regardless.

"I really do. You know, back when I was a girl, I really enjoyed true crime stories. I would read anything I could get my hands on, and this operation, it's really reminiscent of some American history, and some military history I can recall…"

His mind screamed. It was at these times that the girl… woman? would inevitably spout on and on about the deep, hidden, inner meaning of whatever inordinately boring subject they had embarked upon.

Since she was small, he had seen in her the largest insecurities of anyone he had ever met… and that was saying something, considering himself. Rarely had he seen her shed tears, and she was always on about impressing someone. More accurately, impressing herself.

She was the den mother, the teacher, the wizened old Thoreau looking down her nose at Concord, and quite frankly, he found her to be the most splendidly dull individual he had ever encountered.

Now she was talking about something called the "Thermadorian Reaction."

In response, he slammed his hand on the desk, using it to help heave his aching form (God, he was getting far too old for this…) to his feet. A little grey was starting to manifest itself at the roots of his greasy hair. She stopped talking and watched him as he moved slowly to the opposite side of the room, leaning on the wall of the office. He said nothing for a long time.

Then, "you meddle so."

"Yes."

"And you _talk_ so."

Embarrassed. "Yes."

"Have you finished the reports?"

"Yes."

In the silence, his shoulders heaved and his forehead began to melt little beads of sweat against his forearm, which was in turn pressed against the cold stone of the wall. He reveled in it. He was glad to be able to feel, at least for now. Feel anything.

"You remind me of Lily, in a way. She would talk so. And meddle so. And she was smart."

"Did you love her?"

"Heavens no." He almost laughed at that. "That would be awfully silly of me, wouldn't it? Whatever gave you that silly idea?"

He could hear her chair scrape against the floor as she stood. "The way you looked after Harry so much, the way you followed him… the way you resented James."

He turned to her. "Tell me, has anyone ever told you that you overanalyze?" She blushed at this. "Resentment is pure resentment, sometimes. And as for Harry… that is something else entirely."

She gasped. "Did you love _him_?"

A look of sickness graced his face. "What sort of person do you think I am, anyway? No. No… and I will not continue this discussion any further."

"Please, sir?"

"Why are you not working confessions out of criminals in Azkaban?" He turned back to his wall. It was cool. The room was suddenly hot. He welcomed the juxtaposition.

He remembered sullenly the time those insufferable boys (lived boys, died boys, to the last of them) had hoisted his knickers up a flagpole to the top of the great hall. Heaven only knew how they had gotten a flagpole inside the great hall…

Or the brief moments, where he had wanted to crawl into the shrieking shack and live with the ghosts.

Or the stark realization that there were no ghosts that shrieked like that. That there was only him. That the outcast inside the shack was, in fact, no outcast at all.

"It was because I didn't want to be alone."

"I know," she said.


End file.
